Taller than Thou
by Maelwaedd
Summary: Breakups, angst, and a morning coffee. Tonks' week seems to be looking up.


As a Metamorphmagus, Tonks could change small things about herself with relative ease: her hair colour, the shape of her eyes, the size of her breasts, even. But the bigger things were more difficult. Like height: she had tried, once, in a failing relationship to just make herself smaller. She had towered over her girlfriend, and she had hated it. So she willed herself into a shorter form, and had squirmed through the entire day with her insides feeling as if they would explode out of her body. Not something she was willing to try again.  
  
It wasn't that she was tall; just that she was slightly taller than the average. It had been fine in her teen years—there had been many an older, taller woman, who had taken her back to their flats after she changed her face to appear older and gain entry to one of the more adult-orientated venues the other girls only whispered about after curfew. Every holiday she would 'stay with a friend', her mother believing her innocent guile, and she slipped away from the house in search of companionship. She held those stray weeks close to her heart, filled if not with love, then at least with touching and holding and tenderness. Sometimes, at night time, she lived those memories through her Pensieve. Sometimes she cried.  
  
It wasn't that she was so shallow that height was all she looked for in a lover. It was just that it was so nice. She had been a confident girl, but had grown into an awkward woman: her teenage growth spurts shocking her, and leaving her permanently with the coltish stride that generally only plagued teenagers.  
  
Molly, bless her soul, had held her and stroked her hair after yet another break up. Harsh things had been said, and Tonks had spilled her longing to find a woman, just once who could even match her height. The older woman had tutted slightly, wiped her tears with a warm cloth, and told her not to worry: she'd find a nice, tall man sooner or later. Tonks had wept even harder that night. Maybe one day she would find a 'nice man', as Molly had put it, but the only unattached man in the Order taller than her was Severus, and she could only begin to imagine his reaction if she came to him for—she didn't want to think about it.  
  
As she dried her tears in her lonely bed, she heard through the floorboards the overly-loud whispers of the Order's resident half-giant, the screaming of Mrs Black, and a startled exclamation in French. As the screaming subsided, Tonks wondered who the new Order member was.  
  
Molly always made breakfast. Tonks, who had heard tell of her actions through the first war, sometimes wondered what had happened to turn this impossibly brave into little more than a housewife. Her children, perhaps? But Molly had had children during the first war. Just—not as many; or perhaps even more, depending on how you looked at it. Ron and Ginny were practically grown up now, whereas she'd had only littles the first time around. She plonked herself down at the breakfast table and smiled her thanks up at Molly when the older woman served a plate in front of her. Whatever the reasons, Tonks couldn't dispute the fact that Molly was a damned fine cook.  
  
She was seldom alone at the breakfast table, but being that she was hardly a morning person, she wasn't in the habit of actually surveying her surrounds until after at least one cup of coffee. Some of the others had looked a bit strangely at her, at the start, as she filled the air about the breakfast table with the bitter scent of her morning hit. They had gotten used to it over time, and Molly even let her have her own coffee pot at the table. Which was currently being mentioned...  
  
"Sorry?" she asked, looking around with bleary eyes trying to see who had spoken. Shacklebolt snorted into his tea.  
  
"You'll not be wanting to ask this one for her coffee," he said, taking the pot and passing it further down the table, "not until she's had at least two mugs of it. She'll drop it all over you, quicker than you can say—ouch!" He glared at Tonks as she sipped from her mug, tucking her feet back under her chair. "What was that for?"  
  
"Don't go mocking the sleeping Auror," she grumbled, taking the opportunity to yawn behind her hand.  
  
"Poor lass," he laughed. Tonks glared at him.  
  
"Do you mind my sharing your coffee?" a careful voice asked, and Tonks managed to focus on the speaker. A tall woman sat at the other end of the table, her luscious figure accentuated by a bodice with a richer cut than Tonks would have ever dared to wear.  
  
"No," she almost stammered, feeling gawky and even more self-conscious than usual upon finding that she was sharing a table with such a beautiful woman. "No, not at all."  
  
The woman inclined her head. "Thank you," she said, still careful with her English. Shacklebolt snorted again.  
  
"I see that you're awake now," he commented, and Tonks glared. "Tonks, this is Olympe Maxime. You might have heard of her: she's the Headmistress of Beauxbatons. Madam Maxime, Nymphadora Tonks."  
  
"Just Tonks," Tonks was quick to qualify. "When did you get in?"  
  
"Last night," the other woman nodded. "It is nice to meet you."  
  
"It's good to meet you, too," Tonks said, blushing at her lack of manners. "Feel free to drink all the coffee you want." Embarrassed, she fixed her eyes back on her plate. The other woman laughed, a rich bell-like noise that made Tonks shiver.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
When Tonks dared to look up again, the other woman was still looking at her. 


End file.
